


Seeking Depths

by blackrose_juri



Category: Shoujo Kakumei Utena | Revolutionary Girl Utena, The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Alternate Universe - Revolutionary Girl Utena, Gen, Surreal, Wake is Mikage, creepy elevator sequence, reverse-impaling, teaser for a longer AU, unhealthy sibling dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 17:33:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30109530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackrose_juri/pseuds/blackrose_juri
Summary: ALocked Tomb/Revolutionary Girl UtenaAU teaser; a TLT-flip on the elevator sequence and sword-pulling scenes from the Black Rose Saga.Sick of her own powerlessness, Coronabeth pays a visit to the Commander of Eden and becomes a duelist of the black rose.
Relationships: Coronabeth Tridentarius & Ianthe Tridentarius
Comments: 19
Kudos: 25





	Seeking Depths

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! 
> 
> As a long-time fan of Utena (and I already know I'm not alone), I'm super excited to throw some AU/crossover material into the TLT fanfic space. I have ~plans~ for a much longer AU that's set in a heavily Utena-flavored version of Canaan House and follows the general course of the anime with plenty of funky original content, but in the _meantime_ , please accept this little glimpse into a future in which that fic exists. 
> 
> Rated M for Heaviness of Vibe. General familiarity with the Black Rose Saga is encouraged, but I hope it's just as strange and freaky with or without it! 
> 
> Dedicated to my wonderful Utena watch-along buddies. :)
> 
> Recommended soundtrack: [Confession Elevator](https://youtu.be/lvv6gz64R6E)
> 
> And UPDATE: I _cannot_ believe this is real, but please go check out this amazing Black Rose Coronabeth art by the lovely Taj (@[decemberiste](https://twitter.com/decemberiste)) on Twitter! <https://twitter.com/decemberiste/status/1373701679284068354> (spoiler warning for the fic)

Under the cover of the howling wind, under the whipping of the rain and salt and frenzied air, a low, bitter voice crackles out from a metal grille, and Coronabeth commits herself to a red-tinted betrayal. 

“If you’re lost,” the voice says, “then stay lost. We don’t deal with wanderers here.”

Corona leans forward. Her lips nearly touch the speaker. She inhales the scent of wet, rusted steel and recalls the familiar and similar tang of fresh blood. The door itself, in all of its oxidized, grey-and-orange bulk, is an aberrant thing, a projection set inelegantly into the clean-cut marble of the castle wall. “Canaan’s balconies spare no wanderers, and here I am,” Corona says. “I’ve heard the whispers. Does Eden deem me worthy?”

“That depends. For what purpose do you ascend? Why come here?”

If she were to look behind her and downward—past the vine-laden lattice at the balcony’s edge and out over the mountainside—the whole of the complex would be under her nose, from the Academy’s campus to the forest at its border: the dormitories and their adorable prisoners, the statuaries and the hanging gardens, the winding tail of the River in the distance, and in the foreground, the courtyard where the Council meets—the place of her exclusion, of her impotence. 

Absolute vantage, and still none of it hers. She looks neither back nor down; the notion sours on its own. 

“I come to Eden seeking depths.” Her breaths grow ragged as Canaan’s tempest builds. “I come seeking my inheritance. I come seeking  _ vengeance _ , and”—dark, staticky laughter ignites her further—“I come to  _ conquer _ .”

The threshold screeches open to a long, shadowed corridor lined with wooden chairs—each of them carries an intricate, gilded frame, and each frame a blank canvas—and at the end, an elevator awaits her, the halves of its maw coyly parted, a seat of her own in its gut. Something cold and black settles in the cavity of her chest, and she holds a hand to her heart to trap it there. 

Still obscured, the voice calls to her from the chamber and echoes between her ears: “Don’t be shy.”

And Coronabeth walks.

(A mirror greets her when she sits, and a portrait hangs above it—the likeness of a woman she has never seen, a woman who shouldn’t exist beyond whispered stories of revenants and war. The fearsome image looms—heroic, high-collared, and stern, with pitiless eyes and hair like a firestorm—and Coronabeth maps the face to the bitter rasp.

Somewhere behind the wall, a lighter sparks.

The elevator descends.)

> YOU WERE ALWAYS CRUEL TO ME, SISTER, IN OUR YOUTH, BUT NEVER SO CRUEL TO ME AS YOU ARE NOW
> 
> TO PURSUE THIS WITHOUT ME
> 
> TO LEAVE ME POWERLESS—

(From the other side of the mirror, a long exhalation, followed by: “Is that all?”)

> HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN ALL I’VE DONE FOR YOU, IANTHE? 
> 
> HOW I GAVE YOU A FACE AND MADE YOU A PALATABLE THING
> 
> HOW I ENDOWED YOUR THANKLESS WORK WITH PRESENCE
> 
> HOW I PRESSED YOUR UNSIGHTLY TALENTS INTO DIAMONDS BY VIRTUE OF MY CHARM?
> 
> YOU PALE, DIRTY PAIR OF HANDS, I WIELDED YOU AND MADE YOU A WEAPON—

(The vessel plummets, drops her into the throat of Canaan’s mountain, into its heart, its stomach; it drags her for miles and devours her whole, its hunger as vast and as deep as hers, seemingly endless; and with a callous chill, with no morsel of maternal sweetness, the voice says: 

“And what is she without you, child?”)

> WHAT ARE YOU WITHOUT ME BUT A SHEATHED SWORD?

  
  


Coronabeth finds equilibrium in the crash, her body flung from the chair, her hands and knees bruised by the metal floor. 

A shadow hangs over her, now, and she turns, panting, onto her back and gazes upon the face of the Commander of Eden—solid and dark. Real. Knowing.

“Get up.” The Commander offers a gift in a closed fist, holds it up and allows Corona to struggle unassisted. “You have work to do, and I won’t have my memory tarnished by some belly-up princess.” 

Behind those off-black eyes, Corona finds a battlefield and a storehouse of willpower, the strength to stand as though she’d never fallen. 

She rises, phosphorescent, and claims her prize. 

“Good girl. The path you must take has been prepared for you.” The Commander  _ grins _ , now—the grin, even darker than the scowl. “Your only option is to revolutionize the world. Now, go. 

“And don’t disappoint me.”

* * *

  
  


It’s all so incredibly dull, the slog it takes to crack open the world’s shell, to drink its secrets. 

Fortunately, all slogs come to an end, one way or another. 

Ianthe’s way out has cost her an arm, and it would’ve cost a slower girl the complementary leg. A limb for a hint, punishment for a glimpse at an esoteric text—still a better alternative to bureaucracy, to the phone calls from nowhere. And now she has a keepsake for her troubles: a gilded prosthesis, permanent jewelry. 

By candlelight, Ianthe assembles the pieces of the theorem in her study, calculations sprawled atop her desk. Her golden fingers trace over ciphered notes as she checks her numbers. She’s not yet accustomed to the way the hand glints in the light, how it no longer mirrors its sallow twin, which fidgets with the corner of a page. 

She predicts accurately the moment of interruption. 

It always happens like this; when she’s immersed in her books or on the cusp of a breakthrough, Coronabeth arrives, beautiful and full of air, eager to exhale a host of asinine questions. The door opens behind her on sighing hinges, but Ianthe does not turn in her chair because Corona will  _ make _ herself seen, anyway. 

“What is it this time, Corona?” Ianthe flips a page and counts the aggressive, attention-seeking footsteps. “Missing Babs, again? Run out of first-years to flirt with?”

“I’m here to collect, Ianthe.”

“And what might you possibly intend to—"

And Corona’s hands are tight on her shoulders before Ianthe can investigate the acid in her tone; then up her neck and beneath her chin, gripping, clawing. Wood scrapes wood as Corona drags Ianthe and the chair backwards, and Ianthe clutches at her sister’s wrists and makes a strangled cry that dies, pathetically, between a groan and a whimper. 

Ianthe looks up and back and grinds her teeth as Corona leans over her, face inverted and eyes gleaming, and it’s so uncharacteristically drab, this getup she’s wearing—black and high-collared, with a thin metal pendant around her neck. 

“It’s about time you started saying  _ thank you _ ,” Corona says and reaches down to the center of Ianthe’s chest, over her heart. 

“ _ Corona— _ ”

This isn’t the first time one of them has pondered the ease with which they might snap the other’s neck, but there’s a pressure that swells beneath Corona’s palm, cold and dark and otherworldly, that shrouds the encounter in uncertainty. 

So much sweat and effort spent, and this is how Corona repays her? How typical. 

The pressure bursts, and Ianthe stares no longer at lavender eyes, but at the silver, jewel-laden nest of a basket hilt and the accompanying blade, procured from her torso. Somewhere in the searing pain, she finds relief—relief that she might set aside the  _ anticipation _ of betrayal and carry on with the fallout. 

Ianthe doesn’t scream; she releases a hoarse sigh, instead, as the rapier steals her energy. It’s a blood-soaked withdrawal, guided by a familiar, embellished hand, and in her last conscious moment, she glimpses a peculiar ring around Coronabeth’s finger—elegant and black, set with the symbol of a rose, almost identical to the one she wears herself. 

A perfect replica in every way, save for the color. 

The opposite twin. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
